Playing with Fire
by booksandblades
Summary: Tara Mellark is born into a world she had no choice but to fight in. Her parents, Peeta and Katniss, escaped the Games twice. She has survived the reaping five times. But now, she is seventeen, trained, and ready... and the arena is waiting for her. AU: rebels don't succeed in rescuing tributes in CF, Peeta and Katniss are forced to have children.
1. Rue's Lullaby

I was born in the year of the Eighty-Second Hunger Games. Six years earlier, my parents won the third Quarter Quell, the ending of which remains a mystery to Panem. According to the stories, District Three messed up, and so, Panem has no footage of the ending of the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games—and there have been no answers as to why so many tributes survived those Games.

I discovered what happened a long time ago.

The rebels of District Thirteen tried to retrieve the tributes from the Quarter Quell, and although they were, at first, successful, the Capitol caught up with them. "An epic battle in the skies," Haymitch always told me.

Mother would glare at him and reprimand, "Don't make it sound like it was a good thing, Haymitch."

It wasn't like I'd ever think of it as a good thing, because Haymitch always told the story how it was. How the hovercrafts crashed, how the Capitol held people at gunpoint, how some rebels died. Epic battle of the skies though it may have been, it still always felt like a horror story to me. On some nights, when my imagination got the better of me, it kept me up at night, hardly able to come up with any idea of how horrible it probably was like to be there that day.

"The Capitol was merciful," Father said to me, that night he heard me tossing and turning from the hall. He wiped my tear-streaked face. "They let us live."

"They made you have us," I said.

Father kissed my forehead. "And the world is a better place with all of you in it."

I smiled at him as he left my room that night, but deep down, I knew that life would be easier if Mother and Father never had children.

Six years after the Games, my parents had me. A year after I was born, District Twelve got its fourth victor: Ara Flemmin. Ara was sixteen when she won the Games. Claudius Templesmith liked calling her silent but deadly. She was right at home in the arena of poison and other deadly substances, having done some study on that with someone in Twelve. Now thirty-two and still unmarried, Ara learned from Haymitch and my parents.

Another six years after, Halse Bush—now twenty-seven—won the Games. Cocky and charming, Halse was the type of victor Panem liked to see. He was the image of youth and adolescence. Halse acted like he ruled the world. The older viewers liked to compare him to Finnick Odair. Much like Finnick, Halse has a string of admirers in the Capitol.

Paolin Haber was the most recent victor for District Twelve. He won the Games at seventeen—seven years younger than Halse. Haymitch often praised his style. He still does, when he watches the replays for future tributes. (Haymitch, alcoholic though he still may be, has taken his mentoring duties much more seriously at times; when the drinking gets too bad, Mother and Father step in as mentors.) Paolin was a fast learner and just fast in general. He was agile, with reflexes that could contest my mother's, and that's saying something. Lean but strong, Paolin was an underdog in his Games. Nobody really expected him to win.

"Tara."

I look up to the doorway. Mother stands there, a pile of laundry in her arms. I'd seen pictures of Mother as a young girl, and she hardly looked any different. There were lines on her face, of course—how could you live through the things she's lived through without having lines?—but essentially, she looked no different. It was still always a bit disorienting to see my mother's old pictures, though; she wasn't _Mother _yet.

"Yes?"

Mother adjusts her grasp on the laundry basket. "Would you mind putting Ruth to bed? I think she needs a song tonight, but I'm trying to finish the laundry—"

"No, I got it," I say, standing up. I know why Ruth needs a song tonight, and I would need one, too, if I were her age.

Although the Capitol basically threw money at us every month, Mother refused to hire any help. Father said that she liked to keep misery all to herself. And anyway, I thought Mother was happy that way: feeling responsible for something. Not being always aware that the Capitol had ruined her life. When she worked, she could forget that. She could lose herself in that misery, and regardless of how depressing that sounds, it works. It keeps her sane.

I walk down the hallway to my sister's room. Ruth is eight, my only sister, and named after my mother's mother. We had two brothers: Matzo, who is fourteen, and Kelton, who is eleven and named after my father's father. The thing about Ruth and her name is that it is so close to "Rue". There are a number of times when Mother has slipped and accidentally called her Rue, the name of the tribute who Mother watched die in her Games. Ruth has understood it. She doesn't question it, and she responds to it if anybody calls her that. It's funny, because she looks nothing like Rue, who was dark-skinned and small with brown eyes and brown hair. Ruth is blonde and blue-eyed, like my father. And for an eight year old, she's remarkably tall and lean. I've heard people say she'd be a contender in the Games, which is a frightening idea.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow  
__A bed of grass, a soft green pillow  
__Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes  
__And when they open, the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe, and here it's warm,  
__And here the daisies guard you from every harm  
__Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true  
__Here is the place where I love you  
_

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away  
__A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray  
__Forget your woes, and let your troubles lay  
__And when again it's morning, they'll wash away_

_Here it's safe, and here it's warm,  
__And here the daisies guard you from every harm  
__Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true  
__Here is the place where I love you_

_Here is the place where I love you_

When I finish, Ruth has already fallen asleep. I brush the hair from her eyes. She will be the last of my siblings who will be in the reaping. The thought of it terrifies me. I will not be there to protect her. When she is twelve, I will be twenty-one and well out of the reaping. My brothers, although they would be eighteen and fifteen would probably volunteer for her, but they could not without costing their own lives. On my part, at least, I would volunteer to keep any of them alive, even if it meant my own. Still, if Ruth is reaped, she will be ready, of course.

It is against the rules, but my mother has trained us anyway. All of us know how to swim. We can shoot. (Of course, nobody can shoot like Katniss Everdeen.) We can set up traps. We know how to survive. I just wish that none of us will have to need it, but for my family, the odds have never been in our favour.


	2. Old Friends

**A/N: **So, for a very long time, I've gotten requests for a sequel to I Am Strong (one of my other fics), and it's kind of hard to write a sequel for that! It's pretty wrapped up at the end, you know? There is no story after it. If you haven't read it, I recommend it. It's not the worst. :) So, anyway, I started thinking about other ideas, and that's where Playing With Fire came in.

I am participating in August Camp NaNoWriMo _and _going on vacation at the end of the month, so I'm pretty busy. I won't be writing for this until I reach my target word count of the day! Nonetheless, I'm going to be pretty good about updating this one. I'm notoriously good (I updated every day for IAS!) except for that one time I left one fic hanging at its second last chapter for a year. Whoops. Sorry. Anyway, thanks for reading, guys! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

My friends are coming over today. The press like to call us the Silver Age, and for good reason, I guess. My mother runs around the house, preparing for _her _guests—their parents, all people once upon a time involved with the Games at some point or another—and ignoring my father's offers of help. I look at Father and we both laugh. He gives up, eventually, sitting beside me and watching TV.

The first of my friends is the one and only participant in the Games among us. I remember Finn's Games very clearly, not just because Finn—one of my best friends—was in them, but also because the hype around it was intense. How could it not be, with the son of not one but two victors in the arena? Still, Finn is anything but a warrior. He has none of my mother's ferocity, he is not as sociable and charming as his father, and, well, it's not like my father and his mother won for a reason other than luck. He believes he won for the same reasons as my father and Annie.

Finnick and Annie are two of my parents' closest friends. Finnick was in the arena with them during the Quell. Their wedding, held in District Four, featured a cake decorated by the one and only Peeta Mellark, of course. Although I wasn't born yet, I've seen the pictures. It was a very beautiful wedding. Their son, Finn, is practically a cousin of mine.

"Paparazzi here already," Finn notes, as we sit outside my house on the porch. They stroll the Victor's Village, trying to be inconspicuous.

"They're never late."

Finn smiles and looks at me. "Are you nervous, Tara?"

"Nervous for what?" I ask.

He lets out a little scoff, still smiling. He looks back toward the road as we await the other two who complete our quartet. "Reaping."

I don't respond.

"It's okay to be nervous. It's Rysnna's last year, and she's terrified beyond belief."

I look up at Finn. Rysnna—who is Johanna Mason's adopted daughter—did not mention this to me, but it's no surprise. "Of course she is. She's nervous _because _it's her last year. Think of all those slips with your name on it. And Seven's almost as small as Twelve. The number of names is way smaller than in a district like yours."

In an undertone, Finn murmurs, "As if the Capitol would let any child of a victor die in the arena."

Again, I can't find anything to say to this. I know this is why Finn believes he won: he thinks he won only from luck, as well as viewer and sponsor support. He might be right.

Johanna, like my mother, probably never would have had children if the Capitol did not ask for it. Rysnna was forced into Johanna's arms by the Capitol, after Johanna found her in her biological parents' cabin. Both of them had been dead from suicide, and Rysnna had been crying, which is how Johanna found her. The Capitol loved the story and wanted hard-heart Johanna Mason to become a mother. _Forced_ her. Although she has learnt to love Rysnna—through many years of indifference—I know it's still hard on her to be a mom. I'm happy that after this year, she will no longer have to worry for Rysnna's participating in the Games, unlike my mother and father. I still have one more year, followed by three more children, two of which are not even eligible for the reaping yet.

"That's Effie's car," I mutter, as it comes up to our driveway.

Effie Trinket-Domitilla exits her car in typical Capitol fashion. She loves the camera as much as it loves her. Her son, Felix, comes out the other way so quickly the cameras don't have time to catch him.

"Rysnna not here yet?" he asks, hopping onto the porch.

"No," I reply, giving him a hug. "How was the train?"

Felix rolls his eyes. "Mom wouldn't stop talking the entire time."

"Sounds right." Effie was a big part of my parents' life at one point, and her family entered _my _life not too long after Finn's did.

"I think Rysnna was on the same train as me, actually," Felix says, "but she might have gotten caught up at the station. We left in a hurry. You know Mom. She's always on time."

Felix, although eighteen, is exempt from the reaping due to his Capitol residency. Even though he dresses a bit differently, I think he's pretty similar to the rest of us... just not as sympathetic to how difficult it is to live in the districts. He understands the issues, though. To an extent. Certainly more than every other child who grew up in the Capitol.

Rysnna arrives only a minute or two later, revealing that she was, in fact, held up at the station. We exit through the back door while Mother has the press occupied. This way, we can escape them for a longer period of time. When we are together on special occasions—like before the reaping—they never leave us alone. That is partly why it was a terrible, terrible time during Finn's Games, for more than one reason. Not only did we have to worry about his survival, we were constantly on camera as we worried.

"Finn tells me you're nervous."

Rysnna looks up anxiously at Finn and then at me. "Aren't you?"

"Not Tara," says Felix dryly. "She's a born warrior."

We settle down in the Meadow, lying down with our heads together, making a sort of cross with our bodies. The flowers conceal us, hopefully.

"Not born," I correct. "Made."

My friends, of course, know that I am "trained". Finn and Rysnna had no need to be. Like Finnick and Johanna, they knew how to wield a trident and an axe, respectively. Even petite, gentle Rysnna could potentially be a killer. I've seen her swing it, and frankly, if she ever decides to kill, I'm glad I'm considered her friend.

"You know what's scary?" whispers Rysnna. "What if I had gotten drawn with you, Finn? What if I _do _get drawn with you, Tara? Or your brother?"

"You won't," I say, but who am I to? The folks in the Capitol would love that. All four of us know that they're capable of making it happen if they want it to. "At least you'll be out of the running for the Quarter Quell. _I'll _be there, and so will both of my brothers. Think of how terrible that would be. What if the twist is 'children of victors'? It'd just be me and my siblings in the running for our district."

"Don't talk like that!" says Felix sharply. "They'd never do that. Ruth is going to be nine next year."

This is one of those times when Felix shows just how much he is a resident of the Capitol. "They drew past victors once upon a time," Finn reminds him, in his calm, quiet voice. "I doubt it's impossible they'll draw the children of victors."

"And if that ever happens, Ruth wouldn't be in the Games. I would volunteer for her," I say. "If I can be in her place, I _will _be in her place."

Rysnna rolls onto her stomach and looks at me. "You're so brave, Tara."

I tilt my head to look at her and give her a rueful smile. "No... no, Rysnna, I just do what I have to."

* * *

_**Review, please!**_


	3. Meanwhile

_Meanwhile, in District Two:_

"Happy, happy, Hunger Games!"

I look to my friend, Nia Nitzan, as she prances into my house as I lounge on the couch, watching the beginnings of Hunger Games celebrations in the Capitol. She grins at me, flopping onto the couch and swinging her legs over my lap. I give her an amused look. "You excited for the reaping?"

"How can you tell?" she says, swinging her legs down and sitting beside me properly. "Ugh. I am _so _getting tribute this year. I _have _to."

Last year, Nia was beaten out for volunteering by another girl, whose name I forget. She didn't win the Games, adding to Nia's further frustration ("If she was going to go _volunteer_, she ought to at least _win_!"). This year, however, is Nia's last year, and mine.

"So, Mr. Riegan, are you volunteering this year?" she asks.

A bit sarcastically, I say, "If you are? Surely not... I could never beat you..."

Nia rolls her eyes. "It's your last year, and you're not even going to try? Eternal glory! Think of the money! I bet your dad would appreciate it."

My father, originally from District Twelve and very much a rebel, would definitely not appreciate any money the Capitol gives my family. Nia thinks he would appreciate the cash because in comparison to the other families in Two, we aren't as rich. My parents work in the mines—although not as bad as in Twelve, they're still mines. Nia's parents help train Peacekeepers, which is much better than being a miner, at least in terms of the pay. The Nitzans are not like my family, though. My family is fighting a war from behind enemy lines. We don't need money. In fact, in their perspective, we are crazy rich.

"I doubt it," I say, instead. "And anyway, you wouldn't like going up against me. You wouldn't stand a chance."

"Gonna swing your nunchakus and beat _me_?" she asks tauntingly.

I smile. "You know it."

Just then, my mom comes in. "Nia! Hey. I didn't hear you come in."

"Hi, Lira," greets Nia cheerfully. My dad isn't as easy-going and prefers that Nia call him "Mr. Hawthorne". "Riegan tells me he's not volunteering this year!"

Mom looks at me. _She _is part of the reason I don't volunteer in the first place, but we have to keep up appearances, so she says, "He just doesn't have your Hunger Games spirit."

"No kidding!" She laughs. "Do you mind if I take him out today? He looks so depressing."

"Not at all," says Mom, smiling a bit tightly. "Just be home for dinner, okay? And you're free to join us, of course, Nia."

"Thanks." She pulls my arm and drags me up and then out of the house.

I sigh. "Where are we going now?"

"Play date," she says. "It's been too long."

I've been friends with Nia for years—we trained as "Careers" together from the very beginning—and although it probably seems like she's very flirtatious, she acts like that with everyone. There has never been anything romantic between us, and I hope there never will be. She's very insufferable, but it's hard to imagine life without her.

When she says "play date", she means to drag me around town and buy the strangest things, or find some of our older friends who already have jobs to bother them—I can't mention the number of times I've sat in the masonry, listen to Nia be a bother. Nobody ever seems to tell her to stop, and when I wonder why, I remember that I never tell her to stop, either.

"What do you want to do today?" I ask.

"I want to train."

I look at her, exasperated.

"What?!" She giggles. "It's been way, way, way, too long since I've come at you with a sword." Seeing that I'm hesitating, she sticks her lower lip out and says, "Please, Riegan? Come on."

I wrinkle my nose. "Race you there."

...

Later that night—thoroughly tired from both training with Nia and having her over for dinner—I am washing dishes with my dad. I don't look much like him. He has dark hair with grey eyes, which is a strange combination in District Two. It's very trademark District Twelve, for "the Seam", as he tells me it's called. I look more like my mother, who, despite being born in District Thirteen, fits in rather well. Aesthetically, anyway.

My dad doesn't like to tell me much about his past. I know the basics. He got to know one of the rebels in Twelve—a rebel as well as one of their few victors, Haymitch Abernathy—and became involved with the rebellion (and the underground war) that way. After working briefly in Thirteen, he was sent to Two. My mother was sent here at the same time. They fell in love, got married, accidentally had me. Of course, if you fear having your child in the Games and accidentally conceive, the best place to do it is in District Two, where there are enough volunteers to keep you out of the running.

"Your mom tells me Nia wants to volunteer again this year," says Dad.

"Yep."

He glances sideways at me. "Must be tough."

I shrug. "You know it isn't." I've seen so many of my friends volunteer throughout the years. I've seen some of them die on screen. I've also watched Nia mourn it briefly, and then get over it like it never happened. In that way, I'm desensitized and very District Two-like. I don't spend a lot of time crying over my friends. I always honour them for their efforts.

Dad shakes his head. "I can't imagine the way you think..."

"I know you can't." I smile. Sometimes I wish I had his mindset. A small part of me knows that what I believe about the Games and volunteering and tributes and victors... it's all very wrong, and very sick. But then the other part of me says that it is better this way...

"If _my _best friend volunteered..." he says, the sentence getting cut off. Gruffly, he says, "I don't know what I would do."

"If Nia were in the Games, she'd win. I'm not worried about her, Dad. And anyway, she knows what she wants. If I wanted to stop her... well, she wouldn't let me, I guess."

Dad nods, and then we continue on in silence for a few more seconds.

"Do you want to volunteer?" he asks.

I turn around to him in surprise. "No. Of course not. You know I don't."

"Just making sure," he says, quietly. Then, a bit annoyingly, he asks, "But if you didn't _know _the things you did, do you think you would want to volunteer?"

I swallow. The truth is... "I would." And the thought of it makes me guilty, but I still think—just a bit—that being a tribute is an honour, and joining the ranks of all of Two's victors would be... amazing. I still see the terrible side of it: that every year, I watch someone from our District die. Even if someone goes home, I have to watch one die, and the terrible part is, it's only excruciating for so little of a time.

"You would?" Dad asks, inhaling sharply.

"Yeah. I would volunteer... if I didn't know what I do." Then I add, "And maybe if I had to. Wouldn't you?"

He nods, not meeting my eyes. "I guess."

On the TV behind us, President Snow is talking to some interviewer. We listen to him as he hypes up the year before the Quarter Quell ("we're very excited for next year, and it's already in the planning stages, going right beside the Ninety-Ninth Games...") and that although Panem has that to look forward to, this year shouldn't be anything ordinary, either ("this year is going to be almost as amazing... we can all feel it; the Gamemakers even know that we're going to have some pretty exciting Games for this year").

My mom watches, standing there with one hand holding her elbow, the other brought up to her mouth. She looks thoughtful.

"What's on your mind, Mom?"

"Gale..." she murmurs, apparently ignoring me, "did you hear the news?"

"What news?" he asks.

Mom looks nervously at me, as if she's not sure she wants to say what she has to say with me in the room. "The president isn't joking when he says we're going to have pretty exciting Games this year."

My dad puts down the plate and sponge he's holding. "What do you mean?"

"Heavens heard a rumour that the reaping is going to be rigged so that the children of victors will have a higher chance of getting in," Mom says in a hushed voice, even though I can still hear. "Heavens" is Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker. We have to be careful with how we talk, considering we're in the districts. To any neighbor listening in, it just sounds like a gossiping housewife.

I think of the children of victors that I know. There are a handful of them here. A cousin of Nia's—but he's out of the age limit. I have several classmates. (Or had—they don't go to school anymore.) There's Finn Odair, from District Four. But he was already in the Games. Rysnna Mason, I believe, is in her last year this year. Then there are all those Mellarks in District Twelve. And a lot more... considering the number of them in each district, it's not too dangerous. Except maybe in Twelve, where there are only four... or two, of the right age.

"Why not just do that for the Quell?" Dad asks, confused.

I know the answer. "Well, nobody liked the idea of past victors being in the arena. And it sure united everybody. Maybe he doesn't want to give everyone a reason to be united."

"But that was worse. Everybody _knew _those victors and everybody liked them and all those people watching wanted _all of them _to win because they already had before," says Dad.

"Well, these kids have grown up with the camera stalking them, Dad. Panem knows them almost as well as their parents. Panem's seen them grow up."

Mom nods. "Riegan has a point."

My parents look at each other for a while. "We'll have to see what _they _want us to do," my dad decides. _They _being the rebels.

I think of all those children I've watched grow up with me, but from afar. I wonder how it feels, to be under constant scrutiny for no good reason, except for who your parents are. But from them in their adorable diapers to the hardened teens that many of them have become, the country knows them well. Panem wouldn't be able to stand losing them, either, I'm sure.

* * *

_**Review, please!**_


	4. Do We Have a Volunteer?

It is the day before the reaping. The people from the Capitol have already begun preparing in Big Two, the main village out of the cluster we have in Two, each of those villages surrounding a different mine. It is in Big Two that we have our Justice Building and our district square, the place we hold our reaping each year. Nia and I go out for a jog all the way to Big Two. We don't usually interact with the people in other villages, but some of them go to the same schools and some trained with us.

"Look. It's Kallikrateses," Nia whispers. She wipes the sweat from her brow.

I look in the direction she is and see Euripides and Eudocia Kallikrates, the brother and sister duo who are the same age as us, so it is their last year for the reaping as well. Their older sister was the one who beat Nia out for volunteer the year before. I wonder how they reacted, when they watched her die. If they cried, they were probably made fun of for it, because it is not only embarrassing to cry for an "honorable" death in the arena, it is embarrassing to have one of your own die, to let down the entire district.

"You think they're going to volunteer this year?" she asks me.

"Probably," I say. They volunteered two years ago, as well. "Wouldn't you hate to go up against Euripides, though?"

Nia looks at me, a good blush in her cheeks. I know she has a crush on him. He's been one of the few that she actually _has _had a crush on. "I don't know what you're talking about. He's mediocre."

He was anything but, though; Euripides had a wicked swing. When we had been little and handling little shakers, he had been handling a mace with equal ability. In some way, though, Nia was right. The mace was the only thing he was good at. "He could knock you dead with that mace, though."

"So could you. It's not saying much, that he can swing a mace. He's just strong," says Nia, still blushing.

"You're blushing," I tease, poking her.

"We just went for a run! Of course I'm blushing! Don't be ridiculous, Riegan!" She looks away, embarrassed.

I hold back a smile. Nia and I haven't discussed the topic of my volunteering. She does wish I would, which is one of those strange things from "Career" districts... we don't care that our best friend will have to die, it would be awesome to be in the Games together. There are also the weird family pairings—like the Kallikrateses—who don't mind killing even their siblings. I suppose they just hope it won't come down to them.

But at home, the view on volunteering has changed...

...

Whenever it becomes too hard to speak in code about the rebel plans, my parents take me out to the safest place we know: close to the barbed wire fence that guards the district, but not quite out of it yet. There is an enclosed clearing there, guarded by trees and bushes and then a number of out-of-the-way residences. Dad once told me that in Twelve, the fence had not been electrocuted for a long time, and he had been able to leave the district fairly often. I can't imagine that sort of freedom. Think of all the things you could do and say out there, beyond the ears of the Capitol...

My parents and I always bring food to this clearing, to pose as a family out on a picnic, just in case anybody sees us. Nobody hears us here, ever. It's very private, unlike our house, where there are windows through which we can be heard.

"The rebels tell us that there will most certainly be a good number of victor-children in the arena this year," my mom says quietly, spreading some jam on bread and handing it to me. "Among them, the mockingjay's children. Possibly."

The mockingjay is Katniss Everdeen, who is one of Twelve's very few victors. She's particularly special because she made the Capitol have _two _victors, for the first time in Hunger Games history. She refuses to have anything to do with the rebellion, however. Despite her not knowing, the mockingjay is vital to the rebellion. I once asked Dad if he knew her, and he denied it, said that no, absolutely not, and don't ask me about it again. I decided she broke his heart once. He would never have been so embarrassed about it otherwise.

"So what do they want us to do?" I ask.

Mom and Dad exchange glances. Dad, however, has never been one to hold back. "They want _you _to volunteer."

At first, I am confused. I do not know how to feel about this.

"They want me to volunteer?"

"Yes. To keep all those children alive," says Dad.

"Even if it means killing the others?" I demand.

My parents flinch, because they know—like I do—that I would not hesitate to kill the others. If I were drawn in the reaping in any normal circumstance, I would kill just as viciously as anybody else in my district. Mom nods slowly. "Those are Thirteen's instructions."

"That's messed up."

"We don't question the orders, Riegan," Dad reminds me.

"Why do we want them alive? Because they're a face? They're a known face?" I ask, disgusted. "That's how they decide who they want to live or die? Whoever is most _useful _to them gets to live... the rebels are just as bad as the Capitol."

"Shh!" they both say. What I said must be extreme, because it's uncharacteristic of Dad to silence me. He complains just as often as I do, if not more.

We settle into silence. Mom keeps spreading jam and making sandwiches. "Riegan, we know it's not the best arrangement, but we have to do what we're told. Besides, I'm sure they have their reasons."

"And isn't this what you wanted?" asks Dad, his expression grim.

I feel a bit embarrassed because I know what he thinks of it. I know that he thinks I'm mad and crazy and sick and such a disgusting Career, but it's his fault for raising me here. I've done the best with what I was given, though, so there's that. "I didn't want to choose people to protect when I'm in there, Dad."

"You don't choose," he says calmly. "And it's for the good of the rebellion."

I can't overstate how many times I've heard him say that throughout my life: "For the good of the rebellion." As long as it can be somehow connected to "the good of the rebellion", it is worth it.

"So I'm volunteering this year?" I ask.

Mom swallows. "That's what they want."

"And I'm going to die." I can't help but think of it being for the good of the rebellion, that my dad chose this for me. "And you're okay with it."

"You're not going to die," says Dad sharply.

I look at him, and then at my mom, and that's when I realize what the plan is. "They want to do the same thing they did for the third Quarter Quell, don't they? They want to bust out the tributes during the Games!" I scoff, shaking my head in disbelief. "Because that worked out so well the first time. Why don't they just stop it from happening in the first place? Honestly!"

"You know it's not that easy," Mom says. "Look. We have to get the districts united first. The best way to do that is through the Games, which is the only thing all of Panem has in common. It's the thing that kills us, but it also keeps us together. It's the _only _thing that keeps us together. We need it to happen."

There she goes, talking like a rebel.

I sigh. "Fine. I'll do it."

My parents both give a sigh as well (but theirs is of relief), although I'm not sure why, since it wasn't like I had a choice to begin with.

...

On reaping day, in Big Two, when our escort—Lucretia Fustian—stands in front of the crowd of children and wishful families and asks: "any volunteers for the ladies?" Nia's hand is up before she has finished the question.

"I volunteer for tribute!" Her familiar voice rings out, and I can't help but hear the pride, the confidence. I am almost scared.

"Yes! You," says Lucretia happily. I look at Nia, who is gleaming with pride. The Nitzans are cheering for her. When Nia makes it up to the stage, Lucretia asks, "What is your name, tribute?"

"Nia Nitzan," she says, her chin jutting out. The crowd erupts in applause, because even if you wanted to volunteer, you support your district. You are proud of your district. You are proud of the tribute who _will _bring home glory to your district.

"Well, we hope you will bring pride to our district this year, Miss Nitzan, and join the ranks of the greats of District Two," says Lucretia. "And now, for your partner... do we have a volunteer?"

My hand raises in the air.

I wonder if I am imagining the gasp of surprise from some of the people surrounding me.

"Yes, you, with the reddish-brown hair," says Lucretia, because so many of the boys have volunteered this year—including Euripides Kallikrates, who shoots me a disdainful look. He is blonde and very much not the one with the reddish-brown hair.

Nia is looking at me in shock and surprise, but pleasure. I cannot help but think it as strange that she knows one of us must die, and she doesn't want it to be her. So she is okay with my dying. And everybody is okay with her being okay with that.

"What's your name, tribute?" asks my escort.

I am a tribute in the Hunger Games. The idea shocks me into silence. I don't know how to feel. I find my voice. "Riegan Hawthorne."

"Ladies and gentlemen, District Two's tributes of the Ninety-Ninth Annual Hunger Games!" cries Lucretia, holding up my hand and Nia's, who is still grinning at me in excitement.

I grin back, but I know what my job is. My job is to make sure whichever child or children of victors makes it into the arena gets out alive, even if it means the death of my best friend.

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_**Review, please!**_


	5. Kind of Cute

_Reaping Day, District Twelve:_

It is Matz's second year in the reaping, and my second-last. I cannot imagine the terror of next year, in the Quarter Quell, when I will be in the reaping, Matz will be in the reaping, and Kelton will be in the reaping. The thought of it paralyzes me.

My mother learned how to braid hair a long time ago, and although she's still not very good at it, I let her. She appreciates the distraction.

"Are you nervous?" I ask her.

"You'll be fine," she says instantly. "You'll be fine, Tara."

That's how Mother is. It's how she's always been. Her pain is irrelevant to yours, if she loves you. If she loves you, you are far more important. In that way, we are very alike.

"I know. I asked if you were nervous."

"No," she lies, finishing my braid. She takes a deep breath and studies the braid for a moment before saying, "No, it's not good, I have to fix—"

I let her pull the rubber band out of my hair. "Why don't I just wear it down?" I ask, taking the rubber band from her wrist. I smile a little. "I always look so skinny when my hair's up."

Mother swallows. She always _is _brave, but you can always see some of the fear slipping out. She is like this on every reaping day. "You'll be fine," she says again.

"I know I will." Brave, brave, Katniss Everdeen.

Father comes in, now. "Oh, Tara." He smiles, holds his arms up to hug me, and I willingly hug him back. "You look so grown up. Such a..." I know he wants to say "tribute" or "Career", and in District Twelve, they're synonymous with "corpse" or "murderer", so I'm about to think he's not going to finish his sentence when he says: "Such a woman. Such a grown up woman. I can hardly believe it."

I smile. "Thanks, Father."

"No matter what happens today," he says, looking into my eyes, "you... you are always my little girl."

I hug him again, and then give my mother a hug as well. She is not as open as Father is. She hugs me close to her, but she has no heartfelt words. You just _feel _her love. You don't need her to say it.

Matzo comes through the door, now. He's wearing a nice shirt with a tie and denim pants. He looks remarkably grown up as well, I notice. It's always so much more noticeable with the guys. Matzo is tall and stocky, now; Kelton is still skinny and short. "Ready?" he asks.

"Sure am." I ruffle his hair, and we make our way to the square, luckily not hounded by the cameras. We are given this moment of peace before the reaping.

While the rest of the District Twelve children are herded off into the square, Matz and I are taken aside to chat with the press.

"Any chance you two are going to volunteer today?"

I give them a well-practiced smile. "No, I think I'll just let the odds..." I cannot finish my sentence, for some reason.

Matz picks up where I left off. I see a small glimpse of confusion in his eyes, like—why did you stop, Tara? "We'll just let the odds be in our favor or not today. If we get reaped we'll be sure to make our family proud."

This is how we talk. Like Careers. At least, in front of the cameras.

Father interrupts after a few more questions. "Excuse us. We have to go get checked in."

The three of us walk in the direction of the line. I turn around to Father, who is watching me with a worried expression. "You'll be fine?" he asks, unlike Mother's reassuring "you'll be fine." I nod, and so does Matzo. "Good luck, you two. May the odds be ever in your favor." He says it dryly, like it's a joke, and the two of us smile. It relieves some of the tension. Very little, but it does.

Our escort, who replaced Effie Trinket of long ago, is wandering about the stage with the victors of District Twelve. He is chatting with Paolin, who is looking wonderfully clean and sober next to Haymitch. Ara and Halse are talking civilly with the Mayor Madge Undersee, who turns her attentions to my mother, when she comes up on stage. They have always been friends, as far as I know; Mayor Undersee is one of the few people Mother can do more than just tolerate.

I distract myself with them as I stand in the roped off section for seventeen year old girls. I will not know the results of the reaping until later, but throughout Panem, the reapings are beginning. I wonder how Rysnna is doing.

When I catch sight of a camera, I give them the obligatory smile. I have seen the videos of my mother, who refuses to let them win, to give them the satisfaction of her liking them. The way I've thought of it has always been similar with my father's mindset: just because we don't like them, doesn't mean they can't like _us_. Besides, that's how we get sponsors.

I stop myself. I have to remind myself that I haven't been reaped yet.

Petronius, our escort, and Mayor Undersee goes through the usual. They read the Treaty of Treason, read the list of past victors, only one of them being dead. I am still out of it, gripped with a very strange sort of fear. I have a very bad feeling about this year. I look at Matzo, who is relatively relaxed—as relaxed as you can be, during the reaping.

"We'll start with the boys first, to change things up," says Petronius cheerfully. He asks if there are any volunteers—and there are none, of course—before reaching into the reaping ball and pulling a name of out of it.

"Matzo Mellark!"

There is an instant recognition in my brain. No moment of shock. The grip of fear releases me, and an urgency takes its place: _do something_. I watch my brother as he stands tall and proud, walking up the stairs. He is in no danger of crying. He is a Career. Behind him, my parents look like they've been slapped in the face.

There is no applause, of course; that, at least, is a tradition in District Twelve since the year my mother was reaped. Only touching the three middle fingers of your left hand, and extending. I do the same, but I know what I am going to do.

When Petronius asks for any volunteers among the ladies, I raise my hand.

He doesn't need to ask for my name.

"Tara Mellark!" he says, ecstatic. "Can't let your brother have all the glory, eh?"

It sounds so much like something I've heard before... and dimly, I remember my mother's reaping day, and Primrose Everdeen. My mother was silenced when the same question had been directed at her. When I get on stage, I reply, "On the contrary, Petronius. I have every intention of bringing him home."

Petronius' smile fades a little. "Well, District Twelve, here are your tributes!"

It is right there, as I shake my little brother's hand, that I acknowledge that I am going to die. I have prepared myself for this moment. Through the birth of all three of my siblings, I have _known _that if there is ever a day when they are sentenced to death and a chance that I may prevent that sentence, I _will _take that chance. Matz looks at me, takes a deep breath and shakes his head very subtly.

I do not get a chance to say goodbye to my parents, since they will be going with me to the Capitol anyway. I say goodbye to all my friends, and yes, I cry. It is amazing because if Matzo were not in the Games, I know that I could survive. I am just as much a Career as all the others in those districts. I am _capable_. But because I am capable of winning, I am capable of saving Matz. This is the thing that drives me forward.

The rest of it is a blur. On the train, it is Matzo who speaks to me first.

"You shouldn't have done that, Tara," he says. "You know I can survive just as much as you can. You didn't need to give yourself up."

"I promised myself that if ever this happened I would do everything in my power to prevent you from doing anything _but _winning," I reply sharply. "I promised myself this a long time ago, before you were born, Matzo Mellark."

"I can take you in any form of combat!" he says tiredly. "This wasn't necessary."

"But there are going to be boys bigger than you in that arena. They will be capable of snapping your neck with their bare hands. I will do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen, and I don't care _what _you say," I say. "That is final."

My mother comes in just then, followed by my father. For a moment, I think she is going to break down. All she says is, "I don't know how I'm going to train my own children to kill each other."

"We know which one is going to go home, Mother!" I say. I can't help but be annoyed.

Mother doesn't say anything. Instead, she disappears into the next cabin, followed by Father. Matzo sits down, head in his hands. I look between him and the door that my parents just closed behind them. I sit in front of the door and listen.

I have never heard her cry. If she does—which I'm sure she does—she does it behind closed doors. I can imagine Father hanging onto her as she cries, him crying as well. This is probably what is happening, behind that door... a part of me almost feels guilty, but then, I imagine Matz's dead body, and the feeling disappears.

…

The remains of the day and the day after it are quiet. I don't speak much with my parents, who are still getting over the shock. I can't help but feel like they're a bit mad at me. Haymitch is my companion on the train. My stylist does not say much, but she takes after Cinna's design from all those years ago. We are not on fire, but we do glow, like the actual coal in the fire; I have stopped being impressed with it, as have most of Panem. We have seen it enough times. At least it's no longer just year after year of coal miner costumes.

Rysnna, thank goodness, was not drawn. At least in that area, the odds were somewhat in our favor. The only disappointing thing is that I won't be able to speak to her ever again. That is crushing. Nor with Finn or Felix... I suppose it is a good thing that the districts are so separate from each other. If you're reaped, you don't have to be disappointed of the no-final-last-words with your friends from the other districts. For me, though, it's painful. Child of victors though I may be, I don't get special treatment.

After the tribute parade—which is wholly uneventful—I linger in the lobby while the rest of my family goes upstairs to the penthouse, where we will be staying. My parents are very familiar with it. I get my mother's old room, in fact, and my brother gets my father's. It's all a bit weird and almost like a trip to a vacation house, but... not.

There are other tributes in the lobby as well. I don't remember _any _of their names. Oh, well; it'll probably make it easier for when they die, especially if I kill them. The pair from District Two fascinate me; they are best friends, and they both volunteered. I can't imagine volunteering with Felix or Finn, but I guess in District Two, their perspective is about as close to the Capitol's as it can get. The girl from District Four is a heavy one, with frighteningly large arms and a masculine look to her. She is not one I'd want to cross. There is nobody else I consider a contender, but none of these tributes probably consider Matz to be a contender, either. Nor me. I remind myself not to underestimate any of them.

After awhile, I make my way to the elevator. I am followed by the boy from District Two, who is grinning at me.

A bit thrown by his look, I turn away awkwardly. We both step into the elevator together. He presses the number two, and I press the number twelve. Thankfully, he won't be in the elevator for long.

"Miss Mellark," he says. "I'm Riegan Hawthorne."

Is it a custom for Careers to introduce themselves? I suppose he might be asking for an alliance... but this is not what he does, and either way, I don't want to ally myself with anyone. If there is anything more wrong than volunteering, it is forming alliances. It's like expecting to be hugged and then stabbed in the back instead.

Actually, it's not _like _that—it _is _that.

I don't say "it's nice to meet you", because that would be a lie. I look at him, raising my eyebrows contemptuously before turning away again.

"Have you seen the grounds outside? It's beautiful. I wonder why they don't let us wander," he says. "If they're setting us up for slaughter, you'd think they'd let us have a bit of fun, hm?"

This is not Career talk. Careers don't talk about how the Games are slaughter. They don't talk about how things are beautiful or about having fun. At least, this is not what I _thought _Careers say. I try not to look at him.

"Come, now, Miss Mellark," says the boy imploringly. I see him grinning out of the corner of his eye.

When I look at him, his eyes are twinkling mischievously. I feel a blush coming on. "Tara," I correct, with a heavy sigh. "You can call me Tara."

"Wonderful. You can call me Riegan," he says. He grins and holds out his hand to shake.

When I give him mine (albeit very hesitantly), he brings it to his lips and kisses the back of my hand softly. I yank it back, alarmed. He winks. The elevator dings as it arrives on his floor. "That's me," he says, still grinning. "I'll see you around."

I watch the elevator door close behind him, still thoroughly flustered.

When I arrive upstairs, my mother is sitting at the couch. She looks up at me, and there is a break in her miserable expression, transforming into some curiosity, when she sees my face. "Is something wrong, Tara?"

"I was just in the elevator with another tribute," I say slowly. "The boy from District Two? Riegan Hawthorne?"

My mom pales. I think it is because he is a Career and she's worried I'm hurt, so I add:

"He didn't hurt me. Actually, he... he was... flirting... with me."

Mother looks a bit confused. "What makes you say that?"

"He kissed my hand," I say, feeling as confused as she looks. "I guess he was just trying to... to psych me out."

She nods slowly. Dazedly, she murmurs, "Yes... psych you out."

I walk past her, musing about the strange boy from District Two. It's a shame, too, because he's kind of cute.


	6. The Looks of a Career

**A/N: It's a bit of a shorter chapter today. :) I'll be really busy this weekend, so the updates won't be coming as quickly. Thanks for reading, everyone; I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Matz and I agree to separate in the training center, but all our mentors have agreed that we are to appear mediocre. We are to save our skills until later. And Matz and I have agreed. It's what Haymitch chose to do, it's what my parents did, and it's what all three of them instructed every tribute afterward to do. I would go straight to the survival stations, but I have been more taught in that than most of the combat... I decide to go to the weight-lifting. It's nothing to learn, but I could still probably use the workout today. I don't want to be sore right before (or during) the Games, so today would be ideal.

Riegan and his district partner, however, find their way next to me. "Fancy seeing you again," says Riegan playfully.

I raise my eyebrows at him again.

"It's not a surprise to see her again, Riegan," says his partner harshly. "You'll be seeing her again pretty soon, in fact." I feel a shudder go down my spine. I know what she means by seeing me again pretty soon, and she _doesn't _mean tomorrow at training again.

Ignoring her, Riegan says, "This is my district partner, Nia Nitzan. We grew up together." He beams, and then motions to the station. "How are you at weight-lifting?"

No point in lying, since he's about to see... "I'm no good at it at all."

"So's Nia. Don't worry." He still smiles.

Nia glares at him. We take our places and begin lifting. Sure enough, Nia's not very good; she's strong, but not any stronger than me. Riegan, on the other hand, can lift _my _weight. Once this becomes a bit too weird for me, I move on to sword-fighting and immediately regret it. The two of them still follow me, and Nia looks right at home here. She runs her long, slender fingers along the blades, her eyes glinting. She immediately calls for an assistant, taking not one but two swords.

I know little about sword-fighting, but one thing I do know is: if Nia is so confident as to wield two swords at once, she's not only skilled, she's skilled with _both _hands. Nobody would train her to dual wield without her being completely competent wielding a sword with both her left and right hands. Among most swordsmen, wielding two swords is considered unnecessarily dangerous.

Sure enough, she is deadly. I cannot help but watch as I train with my own assistant. I feel like a child. I'm good with my right hand, but against Nia, I would be dead within seconds.

You would think I would learn, but even after watching Nia at the sword-fighting station, I go to another station I am incompetent in. It's a bit interesting, more of self-defense, but they have what are called nunchakus, and I have never touched them in my life.

Riegan, however, has.

He picks a sword-fighting assistant, and he swings the nunchakus like a child's toy. As a defensive weapon, the nunchakus make sure the sword never touches him. Nia watches, unimpressed: clearly she has seen it before. "What do you say we go swing a mace?" she asks. "He's just as good at that, but he won't be done here for a while longer. He loves the nunchakus."

I'm taken aback, because she's addressed me and doesn't seem to hate me—although "hate" might be the wrong word for it. I wonder if I've formed an alliance without knowing it. "Um, okay."

Nia and I swing maces for a bit. She clearly knows what she's doing, but she and I are about level in this department. Riegan follows us after he's done with the nunchakus, and he manages to silence the entire gymnasium with the mace in his hand.

Finally, I've had enough. Nia—though she may be _addressing _me—is still looking at me like I'm something to eat, so I head to the knife-throwing, which I am fairly decent at. I have my mother's reflexes and my father's skill with a knife, so they go hand in hand here. I hit all of the targets and miss the bulls-eye only a few times. Nia is not as good: though she hits the targets, she's way off the bulls-eye; a lot of it might be luck. Riegan can't do anything special.

The next station is the station I would avoid if I were trying to be mediocre, but I head to the hand-to-hand combat station, anyway.

I let Nia and Riegan go before me. They use brute force and no strategy, no skill or technique. So when I follow, I impress them. I feel more at home here, being able to analyze and think and attack. When I finish, I realize that there are a number of people watching, including Matzo, who is smiling but shaking his head.

Later, when I've finally shaken the Careers off my back, I eat lunch with my brother.

"You shouldn't have done that," he says, but he still sounds amused. "But that being said, it was _pretty _amazing, which is why you shouldn't have done it. You were absolutely destructive."

"I just got tired of them following me around, and Nia kept looking at me like she could chew my neck off, Enobaria-style," I say, exasperated. "I just had to make sure they have an idea about what I'm capable of."

Matz smiles. "It's okay. And anyway, it seems to have worked... but even before that, it was looking like that Riegan guy wanted you for an ally."

I shake my head, but I don't disagree out loud, because a part of me agrees. It _is _looking like that Riegan guy wants me for an ally. Instead, I murmur, "I have no idea _why_..."

* * *

_**Review,**_** _please!_**


	7. The Garden

"I think it's ridiculous, this little crush you have," Nia tells me impatiently. "You know she's going to die. Maybe from your hands."

"I wouldn't kill her," I say, thinking of Tara and imagining all the possible ways I could kill her. I immediately cancel all of them out. "I couldn't."

Nia rolls her eyes. "Come _on_, Riegan. You can't be serious. She's not even that good-looking."

That, I suppose, is where we differ in opinion, because I think she's kind of... pretty. She's not as sexy as Nia—and I say that objectively—but she looks like my ideal girl. She's not too attention-grabbing. She average-looking enough to be approachable, but if you take the time to look at her, she's beautiful.

"Unless you're turned on by her combat skills or something," says Nia sarcastically, breaking into my reverie.

I grin and say cheekily, "Maybe. The way she was able to absolutely destroy that assistant yesterday was pretty hot."

Nia throws her hands up and groans.

"I think I'm going to show her the garden," I muse.

Nia finally has enough. She takes me by the shoulders and very firmly says: "This isn't some girl from Two. This is the Hunger Games. She will die. If you want to win, you have to let her go. There is no way this crush will end well, Riegan."

"Maybe I don't want to win," I say, stringing Nia along.

She lets me go. "If you're giving up already, then... well, then I don't know who you are anymore." She spins around and walks away. I let her. She'll find out eventually... I have every intention of all of us coming out alive, if we don't all kill each other first.

...

I catch up with Tara later, again in the elevator. We have just finished our last day of training. She looks thoroughly flustered to be alone with me again. "Tara," I say, taking her hand. She is about to yank it back, but I hold onto it firmly enough so she can't. "Have you seen the garden upstairs, yet?"

She stares at me, with that familiar contempt. "What are you talking about?"

"There's a garden upstairs, with a great view. Let me show it to you," I say, begging a bit.

Her eyes narrow. "Why?"

I squeeze her fingers. "Please?"

Her glare softens, and she meets my eyes. I allow myself to imagine that maybe she is a girl from Two, and I am permitted to be attracted to her, my heart is permitted to race when I see her eyes, I am permitted to wish for something more. I remind myself that it's dangerous to, and that she is _not _a girl from Two, but the thing is, that's kind of the good thing about Tara Mellark. She is a Career, but she knows it's wrong. She's... she's like me.

"Fine," she breathes nervously, letting go of my hand and sidestepping just slightly, but I don't care. She has agreed to come with me.

I take her past the penthouse—and her floor—to the garden. I pluck some flowers and offer them to her. She takes them, still smiling hesitantly.

That hesitant smile makes me want to say so many things. I want to tell her that we will emerge from this alive. That she doesn't have to worry about Matz, and that I will take care of him, too. That maybe, after this, she and I can be friends, and if she'd let it, maybe something more. But I bite my tongue on that front. Instead, I tell her cheerfully: "I can braid hair, did you know?"

"I don't believe it," says Tara.

I laugh. "No, I swear. Let me show you."

"_I _don't even know how to braid hair," she admits, embarrassed.

"Let me show you," I say again, still smiling. I reach my hands out for her hair, but she takes a step back.

"You're just going to try to knot it," she accuses, taking another step, as if making to walk away.

I grab her wrist again. "No, honestly," I say earnestly, "I know how to braid hair."

She finally succumbs, taking a seat. I sit down behind her and begin to braid her hair. "I learnt because of Nia. She only has older brothers, so she's never really had a sister to do her hair for her—and she also just had me, you know. A guy best friend. So she made me learn how to do it, and I gradually became better at it."

She hesitates to answer and for a long time, I think she's not going to, but then Tara quietly asked, "Why would you volunteer after she did?"

My fingers freeze for a moment as I process the question, trying to think of _why _I would. A bit shaken, I stumble with my response: "Uh, it's just a Career thing. It doesn't really matter."

"You don't seem like a Career. Not really."

I am once again taken aback. "But I am."

Then she stops my hands and pulls away, facing me. "So why are you being so nice to me? You know you're going to kill me, or that I'm going to die. You know it's fruitless."

I swallow. Mindlessly I murmur, "Well, maybe I've taken a liking to you, Miss Tara. Maybe I just want to... get to know you while I can."

Tara looks both confused and insulted. She shakes her head at me, almost rolling her eyes as she runs away. This time, I don't stop her, because I am so shocked by what she has noticed and pointed out.


End file.
